


Soaked

by racketghost



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: All consenting parties all the time, Also Poison, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Cockwarming, It's really not though, M/M, Masturbation, Scary Crowley, he IS a demon, i know what i'm about, let him be a spooky boy, possible dub con?, soaking, this starts out Lullaby by The Cure and ends Friday I'm In Love, venom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/racketghost/pseuds/racketghost
Summary: Because fear pumps through the same arteries that want does. Adrenaline moves in dual directions. Desire and terror well up from the same spring.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 106
Kudos: 939
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Smut Library, Crowley's Demonic Side, Good Omens (Complete works), Ixnael’s Recommendations, The Snake Pit





	Soaked

**Author's Note:**

> this is just gratuitous bathtub sex and a desire for my favorite demon to be the spooky boy he is.

He does not speak. Not quite.

Instead there is a strange sort of whisper that threads through the consciousness. A voice that is not yours in the back of your head. Suggestions birthed near the brainstem.

Aziraphale has heard it only a handful of times.

There had been the first time, in the garden, with leaves curling around his face as Aziraphale reached for fruit still hanging in its tree. Juice had trickled down his fingers from overripe peaches and the sun had cured them into candied lines of syrup. Roadmaps of sugar.

He had heard then a voice tucked somewhere behind his ears, on the inside of his skull— a low and smoky whisper that dripped down the nerves in his neck and urged him to lick them. To let his tongue trace the voyage of that juice, suck up the sugar of its departure.

He had not understood where the thought had come from or why he followed it. He knew only that the sweetness on the back of his hand had tasted as good as the peach it had dripped from. And that he had spent a good portion of his day sitting against the knotted base of that tree and administering a thorough tongue-bathing to his own skin.

It had not been until later— much later— after the incident with Eve and the apple tree that he had realized that perhaps the whisper had been Crowley— lying supine amongst the branches as a great and silent serpent, watching him with eyes that did not blink.

He has heard it a few times since— scattered across the millennia— a voice like deep, deep water rising up out of his own veins, oil slicking up the walls of his skull, suggestions he ought to have thought up himself.

They had always been _good_ things— the suggestions— heady things. Like the time it told him to lie in the sun in Rome for just a little while longer, on that hill in his breezy clothes, let the warmth crawl up his thighs. Like the time it told him to lick the chocolate right out of that pastry, on a park bench, in full view. The time it told him that putting a voice to the pleasures of food was okay— preferable even— moans moving up through his throat around pieces of bread.

Suggestions that may have been whispered across a stretch of grass, dripped from the tree above the bench, risen coiled up from beneath the table.

Suggestions, he thinks, that he was wont to do anyway.

He blinks, and breathes, and can hear that voice again.

_Leave_.

There are something like butterflies in his chest, goosebumps rising up along his forearms. He shifts his eyes along the floor between the bookshelves, then up along the top of them, tuning his ear for a sound that is not auditory in nature.

He feels it again, a bit louder.

_Leave_.

There are numerous people in the bookshop, herded inside by the torrential rain and a desire to sit in his oversized armchairs and thumb through books he did not have the fortitude to say were not for looking, let alone _touching_.

He has been tetchy all morning. A gaggle of young academics had shuffled through his door with their coffees in hand and he had told them in no uncertain terms that such beverages were not allowed near the books.

So they had abandoned them on the table next to the register— a loophole that Aziraphale had thought Crowley would be proud of but irritated him all the same.

Then the kindly old man who often shuffled down the street in a poor excuse for exercise had opened his door. And then the woman with the spectacles which made her eyes appear much larger than they actually are.

Aziraphale had wanted them all to leave, immediately, and never return.

But they are still inside his bookshop, and he is an angel, and so he inhales a bit, exhales the irritation, smooths his hands down the front of his waistcoat.

_Leave_.

He hears a book drop down one of the aisles and Aziraphale hustles out to find it, his heart in his throat— already expecting the worst: the academics to have spilled a coffee they illicitly brought between the shelves, the old man to have dropped dead and taken a book down with him, the woman with the glasses to have found one of Crowley’s crude drawings that he often stuck between cover plates and dropped it, pages down.

But instead he finds a tome pushed off one of the lower shelves, lying on the ground as if someone had pushed up against it from the center of the shelf until it broke free of its brothers.

Aziraphale picks it up, finds it in remarkably unscathed shape.

He runs a hand flat into the space it left behind, pushes his palm into the darkness at the center of the shelf.

“Crowley?” He whispers, and can practically feel the eyes of the elderly man a few rows over staring at him through the shelves.

“Are you here?”

But he hears nothing, and considers that Crowley had been here last night, yes— and heat spreads across his cheeks as he thinks of it, fumbling around on the sofa, hands in each other’s clothes— but he had left at some point before dawn and Aziraphale has not heard from him. Not today.

_Leave_.

He hears it again and something in his chest twists. It is not uncomfortable and it is not unwelcome. Strange though. Powerful. A bit like walking over a grave which bears your own name. A bit like a smoky crossroad at midnight, fog rising up through the earth. It feels like potential. It feels profane.

He finds himself suddenly desirous of leaving the shop, walking into the rain until it sinks down through the fabric of his clothes and slicks the skin underneath. Until it pools in his clavicles and his fingers wrinkle, gives him perhaps a bit more grip.

He blinks and looks toward the door.

A spring torrent of water is sluicing off of the roof, puddles rising up out of the street.

It would feel good, he thinks, to get wet. Soaked. Let it quench the thirst in his skin that he carries with him everywhere, always, a hunger for something deep and wet.

_Leave_.

It would flatten his curls out on his forehead and his breath would rise transparent in front of his face, water vapor hanging suspended for a single moment. A ghost of himself.

_Leave_.

He walks toward the door and finds that the cups of coffee are gone, the young academics have left. He can see them outside now, standing bewildered in the cloudburst.

Aziraphale flattens his palm into the glass, nearly presses his nose to it. He is suddenly so very thirsty.

He can see a woman step off the curb and watches as the rise of the puddle soaks up the fabric of her trousers, starting at the bottom, climbing up the fibers.

He could walk out into it too, step into that humid pool gathering at the junction of sidewalk and street, quench his skin with a tiny drink.

He tugs at his bowtie, loosens it.

The bell above his door chimes and he turns his head quickly to look— to see the old man walking through it, led by something other than his brain perhaps because he is groaning at the sudden wetness, his distinct lack of umbrella.

_Leave_.

He hears it again and rubs a hand against the back of his neck, turns and faces the interior.

The bespectacled woman is still inside, lost perhaps, down one of the many twisting aisles.

Aziraphale squints down into the darkness between shelves, swears for a moment that he can see a flash of scale, the yellow of an eye.

But he has never had good night vision, had always relied on Crowley to lead him down dark alleyways, to fetch him glasses of water at midnight. And as he blinks the image disappears, the voice evaporates in his head.

He follows after it, down the shelves, fingertips on the spines of so many books, tickling their names, desirous perhaps of doing this to another long spine— scaled or not.

_Leave_.

He can hear the hitched respirations of the elderly woman, can hear her shocked confusion at her legs leading her suddenly towards the door.

He watches her go, watches her step out into a rain that is furious in its intensity with nothing more than a newspaper over her head and water skidding off her glasses. She stops and looks confused at the shopfront, at Aziraphale inside of it. And he pulls down a miracle, a small one, one that will make her glasses repellant of water and that newspaper resistant to damp.

He raises a hand to her standing in the rain, gives a tiny wave.

She waves back in a perplexed sort of stupor, and then looks off down the street, walks back perhaps towards home.

And then the door locks. The shop sign slides _closed_.

He half expects to hear the voice again, a suggestion to exit. But the shop has gone radio silent. The shelves seem bereft of life.

He clears his throat and the lights flicker and then burn out, sheltering him in darkness. He glances across the street— can see that the power outage has surged down the neighboring shopfronts as well— windows going dark, the cinema marquee unlit.

There is the sound of something leathery sliding across the floor, his ears attending to the sudden lack of input from his eyes.

He turns around, swivels on his heels, is confronted with the vast and terrifying darkness of his own home.

He feels naked, stripped, thirsty for something in the deep black between shelves.

“Crowley?” He asks, and his heart is beating electric.

He hears the leathery slide again and he stumbles toward it, following it blindly.

It is coming from the back room— from that place that is illuminated silver by the overcast sky dripping in through the windows— and he can hear it again, sliding over carpet this time, and then the parquet flooring. There is movement in the dark, heading up those curving circular stairs from bookshop to bedroom. A flash of red belly, the opalescent shine of an eye.

He can hear someone jiggling the handle of the bookshop, desirous of being inside, dry, out of the rain. And then there is the unmistakeable hissing of a serpent and a chill walking up his neck.

_Leave_.

The jiggling stops, the stairs beckon him.

And it isn’t Crowley, not entirely, that bends his mind around the desire to be sprawled out in his bathtub, in an empty and darkened bookshop, quenching his skin at last. He raises his hand, pulls down a miracle, can taste the rise in the humidity of the room, the perfume of water leading him up the bookshop stairs.

He gets to the top, steps into his bedroom.

It is lit only by those tiny windows that face the alley, the honeycomb tile of the bathroom beyond catching the light of the gray sky, reflecting it back.

There is steam there, he can see, and walks toward it. The claw-footed soaking tub is filled with water milky with its own heat— vapor is rising up and the entire room is gray, the color suctioned out. Rain slaps against the windows and they quiver in response, opaque with steam.

His bow tie is already loosened and it falls easily off, the buttons on his waistcoat lay themselves open. The shirt goes, and then the bracers. They kiss the back of his knees.

The damp air of the bathroom cups his skin, pools into his collarbones. He breathes and it feels like drinking.

_Off._

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and his bones feel liquid and soft, a vertebrate about to crawl back into the ocean and lose perhaps his spine. A reversal of evolution.

“Are you here, darling?” He asks the empty room.

There is no answer and suddenly the notion that he is talking to himself in his own bathroom sends a chill up his spine, down his front, like cold water slicking through his veins.

He thumbs idly at the button on his trousers, tugs at the zipper.

He swallows and can feel a chilled sweat push up through the skin on his chest, along his forehead— heat and fear and cold.

And there is something about the absence, the _aloneness_ — talking to a voice that is not there— the eerie knowing that he is most likely being watched and is not aware from which direction that slicks his insides with a persistent and cloying terror.

His eyes slide around the room, to the dark corners of the floor, the shadows beneath the sink.

It is perhaps too the knowing that if it is Crowley in his bathroom it is not Crowley as he often sees him. It will be Crowley as a giant and oil-black serpent. Something cracked in half to fit in a single sleeve of scaled skin.

“You can come out,” Aziraphale says softly, but there is no motion. He sees no snake.

And for a moment there is disappointment, another injection of adrenaline into his split-open veins at his voice in conversation with no-one.

He closes his eyes and remembers that same leathery sound of Crowley’s serpentine body ascending the garden wall. The coiling up of a great and powerful body— black scales, red-belly, his entire shape a harbinger of the venom locked up in his fangs.

And there is something about him that will always be a bit frightening in that form, a bit stimulating. A remnant perhaps of this human skin Aziraphale is wearing, an instinctive fear that coils up in his throat. Something that makes his heart pump faster and his lungs suck up air, an aversion that perhaps She had impressed upon all living things— to fear with predisposition the serpent that betrayed her.

He opens his eyes and there is a heat in his belly, an ache between his legs.

Because fear pumps through the same arteries that _want_ does. Adrenaline moves in dual directions. Desire and terror well up from the same spring.

He toes off his shoes, tugs his trousers down to the floor.

The unsaturated shine of the bathtub reflects the gray exterior sky— the edge of porcelain a line of white in an otherwise black room. He blinks and squints and tries to force his pupils to dilate further, let in more light.

He hooks a thumb into his socks, pulls them off, runs a finger along the waistband of his underwear.

_Off_.

He’s here, somewhere— coiled perhaps behind the bathtub, soaking up its radiant heat.

“Oh, so you _are_ here,” he breathes.

And it is a dance they are familiar with. A thing as natural to them as breathing— Crowley asking for more without ever speaking it aloud and Aziraphale denying it, holding perhaps the reins. The tempter of Eve and the failed guardian of original sin.

But the world hadn’t ended and they can shed those skins, slip out of their destiny, scrub themselves clean. Reverse their evolutions.

_In_.

He looks at the bath water and can see swirling eddies in its superheated surface, a bar of soap asleep at the bottom like some kind of tallowed isopod.

And he knows somewhere that if Crowley is in this room that he can see him in full color, can see the redness of his cock hard against his belly, how it curves just slightly to the right.

He steps into the water and gasps a bit at the heat, at how it makes his pores soft and the sweat push out of them— a creeping itch that haunts the folds of his skin.

_In_.

The water envelops him, sucks him in, and he lets himself get swallowed by it whole, lets it coat his neck and face and scalp. His skin drinking in the wetness it had been craving. And down there under the water lies another terror. The primordial fear of drowning maybe, an instinct that repels him from the dark.

He surfaces and gasps and opens his eyes.

_Touch_.

The voice feels like a caress, like warm hands on his shoulders. He closes his eyes again and tries to breathe through the stick of panic in his throat, to concentrate instead on transmuting it, grab at the threads of lust that are wrapped around the horror.

“Like this?” He asks, and he wraps a hand around himself.

_More_.

His eyes close and he tightens his grip, strokes through the frustrating lack of slide.

_Ledge_.

Aziraphale opens his eyes, scans the room. There is a tiny bottle perched on the edge of the bathtub that does not belong there. Its plastic form is distinctly out of place in his ceramic and glass bathroom. It does not match the others on his shelf.

It’s oil, he realizes, of some non-perfumed origin. It slicks the surface of the water and spreads there, drips down his fingers.

_Touch_.

And it’s easier then to hold himself, to push his hips up into his own hand— eased by the slide of a hydrophobic lubricant and the knowledge that Crowley is in this room, somewhere, watching him.

“Where are you, dearest?” He moans, and bites down on his lip. There is a frustrating lack of friction, of pleasure, barely enough to sate.

_Inside_.

“Oh.” His head rests back and he parts his thighs, just enough to reach his slicked hand down between them.

He feels naked on an evolutionary level— stripped to a depthless vulnerability. The skin along his chest feels ready to lift up, his throat beats open around his pulse. He closes his eyes as his own finger pushes into his body, bites down around the moan.

It is just shy of _too dry_ and he pulls out, reaches for that anachronistic bottle.

And even slicked with two hands most of what he can feel is just _himself_ — too distracted by the gripping pull of his muscle around the knuckle of his middle finger, of how the skin of his cock feels in his hand.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he breathes. “More. You— I need _you_.”

“Are you sure?”

His eyes snap open and scan wildly around the room, in the dark— because that had finally been a voice not just in his head but in his ears— bouncing off the tile.

But he sees nothing in the darkness, not on the floor, not behind him.

_Not on the floor_ , he thinks. And blinks.

He has a moment of stuttering adrenaline sucked up in his veins, heat flashing across his chest in sudden realization— and then he swallows, tilts his head back, stares up into the darkness on his ceiling.

And he’s there, of course he is— a tangle of limbs that are too long and too thin, spidery and inelegant, the spine bent as he is folded into the corner of roof and wall.

Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat. His lungs cannot expand.

Crowley’s eyes are the milky gold of shined brass, glowing reflective in the black. They blink down at him once. Slowly, wetly. He moves with a sort of incongruent grace— something predatory in the angle of his bones.

He is not sure how long he has been crouching there, how much he has seen. But he swallows back his fear— reminds himself it’s just Crowley— his properly demonic lover— and bites down on his lip.

“Very sure,” he says, and watches as Crowley begins to move.

The legs unfurl, the shoulders slide back. His neck, Aziraphale realizes, is horrifically, impossibly long. Too flexible. He watches as Crowley’s long fingers skate along the plaster of the wall behind him, as he lowers without grace to the floor.

From this level the window light can touch along his skin, his hair— the edges of it glowing copper. He can hear the wet slide of his eyelids as he blinks once, twice, and then those long-fingered hands are pulling the dark clothing off his back, are skimming along the fabric of his jeans.

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, and watches with a hand around his cock and a whimper between his teeth as the zipper descends.

They peel down and off and there are those sharp hipbones, the narrow valley between them, the sex curved up against his stomach.

“Still?”

Aziraphale is not sure if the voice is in his head or in the room but he nods anyway, breathing high gasps from up in his chest, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Crowley moves through the shadows like he is made of them, like he begins where they end. Aziraphale loses him in the darkness for a brief moment, stepping into a shadow that is impossibly, wetly deep— and then he is appearing through the other side of it, behind him, a hand ghosting along the tops of his shoulders.

His throat makes a hybrid noise of fear and desperation, his eyes squeezed up closed. And then Crowley is pushing him forward, slipping in behind him with a grace that belies all his angles.

A hand slides wet up his spine, as if counting the vertebrae, and then settle between his shoulder blades, pushing him ever more gently forward.

He can hear the cap go, the squeezing of something liquid— and then a hand down between him in the heat, squirming between porcelain bottom and muscle. A single long finger sliding into the crease of him. Slick. _Hot_.

He brings his hands up out of the water, grips frantic at the edges of the tub.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he gasps, “yes.”

The finger searches, turns, presses forward. And then another hand is coming up from behind, wrapping around his chest and pulling him back— hard against that bony chest, the sharp jut of his hip.

The angle is a different but it’s not enough— no movement— just a small collection of Crowley’s bones lying still inside him. _Three_ , he thinks, and takes his cock back in his hand.

“Darling—“

“ _Yes_.”

And the word is nearly a hiss, up so close in his ear. Aziraphale can feel the long sweep of Crowley’s eyelashes against his neck, the nudge of his nose into the corner of his jaw.

“You. Inside, _please_.”

The finger pulls out, slides flat palmed beneath his bottom. And then lifts— the hand around his shoulders moving down to guide instead the blunt tip of his cock into place.

There are lips pressing a kiss into his spine, and then the slow push inside— a burn that rises up from the center of him.

“Oh— _fuck_ , Crowley.”

He bears down on the stretch, opening up, head hung between his shoulders.

He can hear the hitched breathing of Crowley behind him, the cold puffs of air against his wet skin. He pushes down— all the way seated— and water sloshes over the edge of the tub and onto the floor.

“Oh darling.”

Aziraphale shivers, not moving— and finds that the pressure and fullness is enough— more than enough. Split open and aching and the pain walks that sharp edge hand-in-hand with pleasure. He breathes shallow, panicked breaths— cock in hand and stroking through the burn.

He leans back into that angular chest, those sharp collarbones, and closes his eyes, not moving— Crowley wrapping his arms around his chest and _squeezing._

Their legs intertwine, weave together, pull Aziraphale open. Crowley’s ankles on the inside of Aziraphale’s and holding him stretched apart, split on the thick of his cock and held motionless— perfectly still— the water rippling only with the movement of a masturbating fist.

“Crowley— please— more.”

But he does not move and there is the suggestion in his head that he is doing only what Aziraphale had asked for— all those years ago. _You told me I go too fast_.

“That’s not what I—“ he gasps, “ _meant_.”

There are teeth at his throat, on his neck, and he leans into their sharpness— thinking again of the harbinger colors of his serpentine form. Black. Red. Yellow. _Danger_.

“ _Please_ ,” he moans, “more. Yes. Bite.”

The teeth sink in and something else along with them— heat with a chill on its back, racing through his veins. A thickness that turns his limbs into jelly, his heart pumping something like acid back out through its valves.

“Oh _fuck_.” He squirms, divided on the unmoving hardness of Crowley beneath him, held apart by his thighs. And Aziraphale has an image of what they must look like from above, from Crowley’s vantage point on the ceiling— a snake wrapped around its prey, fangs sunk in and injecting venom.

He’s so close— twisting up against the restraints of Crowley’s bones and the impossible knife-sharp pleasure of pain. His hand moves frantic. Water spills out over and onto the floor. His body yields a bit more to the cock inside of him and the micro movements grow only ever more pleasurable.

But then something improbable happens— Crowley going somewhat slack behind him— as if the blood that is pooling down and out in the water in front of him from his own neck is somehow an aphrodisiac substance of its own. Affecting Crowley clearly with his suddenly boneless legs, the slack hold of his arms.

The lips disappear and the fangs disappear and there is a forehead suddenly against the junction of neck and shoulder, breathing unsteadily.

“ _Angel_ ,” he breathes out, but it sounds unsteady, _unhinged_. Smoke across water.

“Crowley— Oh fuck, _darling_ — I’m going to—“

There is some sort of desperate and shivering noise behind him, Crowley’s belly shuddering against his back.

“Me— _me too_.”

And the world stops— holds steady— pleasure pouring out between them with each involuntary flex of his muscles. He moans. Arches. Squeezes himself tight in his fist.

Then Crowley is coming behind him, inside him, forehead pressed up against his ear and those arms that hold him tremble beneath something more than orgasm.

He opens his eyes and swallows and finds that his throat is surprisingly sore. His neck burns where the skin is torn.

“Good lord,” he mutters, and lets his head dip back to rest on Crowley’s shoulder.

He breathes heavily into the steam.

“You know,” he says, and stares up at that ceiling where Crowley had wedged himself, “when I said _tempt me_ this is not quite what I had in mind.”

There is no noise behind him, just a steady breathing.

“Darling?” He twists a bit, sucking in a breath at the bite on his neck. “Are you okay?”

Crowley presses a little harder into his neck, audibly swallows.

“M’pretty sure,” he slurs, sounding altogether a bit dazed, a bit drunk.

“What happened to you?”

He brings up one of Crowley’s hands and kisses each knuckle, sucks the water from between his fingers.

“Think maybe— maybe you’ve got some… venom of your own.”

Crowley’s heart— usually so frantic, so inefficient, so _loud_ — is now a steady slow beat echoing up through Aziraphale’s ribs. Sated.

“From— from the bite?” He asks, and looks down to the dreamy swirls of blood dancing along the water’s edge.

“Feel very… mm, _good_. S’warm.”

There is a nose pressed against his jaw, a kiss whispered against his neck.

“Poison,” he corrects.

Crowley shifts his arms around him, settles more comfortably against his back.

“What?”

“ _Poison_. Venom is injected. Poison is consumed.”

He can feel Crowley puff out an exhausted breath behind him.

“My clever angel,” he murmurs. “Whatever it was— it was _good_.”

Aziraphale wiggles back against him, can feel the scratch of his chest hair against the bones of his spine.

“It was?”

“Outrageously so.”

“Oh,” he says, and turns his neck, leaning away just enough that he can see Crowley— sleepy and eyes lidded and not even an ounce of the unholy, terrifying demon he had been in the dark remains. “Glad to hear it.”

Those golden eyes open and the pupils are blown entirely wide, nearly circles, as if he is having a very nice trip indeed.

Crowley smiles sleepily and presses their lips together, the tiniest bit of venom perhaps left behind leaving a faint and pleasant numbness against his mouth.

“Thanks for getting those customers out,” Aziraphale says, and settles back against his chest, water sloshing dreamily in the dark.

He can feel Crowley nip softly at his ear.

“Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on [Tumblr](https://racketghost.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Soaked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731757) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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